


Meeting at the Edge of the Universe

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Angst, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Sad Maw Times, Shadowlands AU (Non Spoiler)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25023652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: The Machine of Death is broken, and Varian finds himself in the Maw. He is shocked when a familiar orc emerges to assist him during his hour of need.
Relationships: Garrosh Hellscream/Varian Wrynn
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	Meeting at the Edge of the Universe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flarenwrath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flarenwrath/gifts).



> My boyfriend and I came up with this AU when Shadowlands was first announced. I realize with some of the recent lore announcements and datamines that it probably isn't going to jive with canon, so consider it an AU! ♥
> 
> Happy Anniversary, Flarenwrath!! I love you!

The last thing Varian remembered was the scratch of fingernails against his chest piece, then a pulse of hot energy that struck at his heart and poured into his veins. His knees hit the dirt, and then, for a moment, he knew nothing but agony: the ripping and tearing and burning of his flesh and the sneer of Gul’dan leaning over him.

And then…there was nothing. Heat yielded to a cool absence, dark and deep as the sea. It enveloped him and dragged him downwards. He tried to reach out and cling to the dirt at his sides but he found his body suddenly distant from his mental existence. 

No longer grounded, he sank, until what had felt like the inky blackness of the ocean materialized into clouds, and then clouds spread and took shape into pillars, not unlike the pillars he had once leaned against as he waited at the base Icecrown Citadel. A smooth floor spread out beneath him, and when he finally found purchase with his fingers it was cool, but not cold, to the touch. 

He splayed out his palms and used the leverage to rise to his feet. He looked behind him, drew in a breath, and waited for Gul’dan to emerge from one of the corridors flanking his sides, to cackle out whatever details of his plan seemed to be evading the king. 

Varian waited, expectant; Gul’dan and the Legion never came. There was no hiss of fel or click of boots rushing forward to take him captive. Instead, there was a lonely silence that seemed to stretch out in all directions. With every passing moment, Varian started to come to grips with the absence of meaning in his current predicament: the utter insignificance of it all. 

With an exhale, he started down a hallway chosen at random. He followed as it wrapped in a circle around the chamber to which he had first arrived, looking to every skull-adorned pillar in hopes they would tell him why he was here. Wandering for what seemed like years, his thoughts turned first to the Broken Shore, then to Anduin, then to the world he had left behind. 

Soon his own footfalls started to sound like thunder, and he struggled to conjure any mental image beyond the endlessly circling path he had found himself on. 

It was just when he started to lapse into mindlessness, however, that a sound dragged him back to the present moment. Somewhere off to his left he heard the squeal of a hinge, and then the slow pounding of boot-clad feet against the stone floor. Varian froze and reached instinctively for Shalamayne but quickly realized he was woefully, shockingly unarmed. How had he failed to notice when he first appeared in the chamber? 

He glanced behind him, and then turned and pressed his back against the stone wall. Holding his breath, he clenched either hand beside his waist. Somewhere in the distance he caught the echo of hisses or words muttered in a foreign tongue. It was nothing like the languages Varian had heard in his life; it sounded like the death rattle of a wounded soldier, or the last gasp of a sailor being dragged beneath the waves.

The king clenched his jaw and squared his shoulders. The moment the plate-clad figure stepped into the hall, Varian whipped around and took off, not knowing why he fled but certain he did not want to stand face-to-face with whatever foul creature he had just seen. His feet thudded across the floor and his arms pumped by his sides. 

He ran and expected his breath to grow ragged or his heart to pound in his head, but they never did. Instead he dashed down the dimly lit hallway, and every step felt like his first. Numb and disoriented—lost and confused—he ran and ran until he passed the final pillar and came to stand before an iron door.

He threw his weight against it, and to his surprise and relief, it budged. Slamming against it once more, he managed to get it to crack. A puff of dry, dusty air leaked in over the threshold. With another pound of his shoulder against the smooth surface, it finally yielded just enough for the king to wedge his body between door and frame and stumble out into the arid, colorless world that surrounded him.

Overheard, the sky churned, and if there were a sun it was blocked out by layers of clouds. All around him, he saw nothing but brown: not an earthy brown like the soil in Elwynn but a dry, cracked umber that looked like it hadn’t known life for ten thousand years. 

But at least it was something, he told himself. Though he staggered and fought to make sense of the tower stretching up before him, being outside those endless halls brought his existence back into focus. He flexed his hands, rolled his head to one side, and took a few steps back to get a better view of the fortress in which he had found himself in. 

He considered taking a seat to gather his thoughts, but instinct told him to stay on his guard. After all, he didn’t know when that creature from the hall might step through the door, and without his sword all he had was the strength of his fists and his wits to protect his autonomy. 

‘Where _had_ Gul’dan sent him?’ He wondered as he took a few paces to the left, and then another several to the right, ‘Was this intentional, or had a portal gone wrong and flung him to the far reaches of the Legion's domain?’

If that were the case, he doubted he would ever be found. Stormwind, Anduin, Genn—they would all be a distant memory as he squandered his final days starving alone on a rock at the edge of the universe. 

For now, however, he knew neither hunger nor thirst, and at least he could content himself in that. With his gaze fixed upon the tower, he walked its circumference, then took a few steps down the platform it jutted out from and circled again. The smell of dirt clung to the tip of his tongue. He swallowed, and stared, and wondered, until a skittering and clanging behind him stopped him in his tracks.

It all happened at once. He whirled around and found himself confronted by an unearthly hound covered in iron plates. It growled, Varian crouched and readied his fists, but just as the dog’s jaw snapped open and Varian lunged to attack, a metal spear whizzed past him. It skewered the creature through its maw, pinning closed its mouth and leaving it whining and whimpering inches from Varian’s feet. Its legs crumpled. Its armor clanged, and Varian took a step to the side, gazing out over the brown expanse.

A large silhouette emerged from the fog. Varian kept his fists clenched in front of his chest, but then a familiar figure of an orc started to take shape. 

Varian’s brows rose. His chest clenched, and it felt as if all the air had been squeezed from his lungs. He opened his mouth, but the only sound he managed was choked and meaningless. The orc took a step closer, and then he, too, froze, with his hands drawn in fists in front of him. When Varian looked into his golden eyes, he saw his own horror, confusion, and dread staring back at him. He wasn’t sure if he was merely seeing his own reflection, or if the stunned pain that gripped him also held the orc in its throes. 

Everything seemed to stop. Even the whimpering creature between them did nothing to shake them from their standoff. Finally, nervously, Varian watched as Garrosh’s lips parted and he uttered, simply and solemnly: “Why are you here?”

Varian knew at once the weight of those words. Hearing Garrosh speak them only further confirmed the realization that had wrapped its fingers around his heart. He wasn’t on some far-flung planet; this was no failed plan of Gul’dan’s, and there was no going back. 

He was here because he was dead. This was the afterlife, and he would be sharing it with Garrosh Hellscream. 

He wasn’t sure if he should be upset or relieved to see the familiar face, but Garrosh gave him little time to deliberate. With a huff, the orc advanced and tore the makeshift spear from the wounded dog’s maw. He brought it down again between the creature’s eyes, then yanked it free. Varian could feel the tension and rage behind every gesture.

Overwhelmed by frustration at what he assumed to be pettiness and desperate for some semblance of normalcy, Varian snapped, curling his lips into a scowl, “Of all the people to get trapped with, why in Light’s name did it have to be you?”

It was difficult to place the emotion that crossed Garrosh’s face when he spoke, but whatever it was was quickly masked behind a glower as the orc shot back: “If it weren’t me here with you, that dog’s teeth would be in your arm. The least you could do is show a little respect.”

“For you? I hope you’re kidding.”

“Kidding? Does this look like a joke to you, Wrynn? Glad to see you’re still as much of a fool as I remember.”

Varian let out a huff, but in truth the irritation he felt prickling at the nape of his neck was a welcome distraction from the hopelessness that had sunk like a weight in his stomach moments before. At least this felt…familiar. Normal, even. From the way Garrosh stomped his boots to the show he made of wiping the metal rod in his hand against the side of his pants, it brought him back to moments where his sense of self still remained intact. 

‘Well,’ he thought back to a time when he had stood in the center of an arena and gazed up into Garrosh’s face, hardly knowing who he was, let alone why the orc seemed so curious about him. ‘For the most part, at least,’ he conceded to himself, and gave his head a slight shake. If Garrosh noticed, he said nothing, instead finishing with his cleaning and taking a few pointed steps back in the direction from which he had come. 

When Varian made no move to follow, however, Garrosh stopped and pointed the tip of his spear back in the king’s direction. “Well?” The orc asked. 

Again, Varian arched his brow, “Well, what?”

“Are you coming?” Garrosh was quick to shoot back. There wasn’t any obvious hope in his words, but they weren’t fully devoid of it, either. 

The offer caught Varian off guard, and for a moment all he could do was balk. Finally, slowly, he found his voice, though the words that came out weren’t necessarily the ones he intended to form. “Why would I do that?” He muttered, with his gaze trained to Garrosh’s face.

The orc seemed to have an answer for this, as well, though he grunted it out with a sneer: “Because that dog isn’t going to stay dead for long, and I doubt you could take him down on your own.”

‘So that was it, then,’ Varian thought with his lips pursed in a line. Straightening his shoulders, he let his gaze fall first on the dog, then the spear in Garrosh’s hand, and finally back to the orc's thick lower lip curled in a grimace around his tusks. He wanted to ask Garrosh why he seemed to unhappy to see him yet insisted on saving his life. Should he protest? Should he steel himself to set off on his own, if only to avoid whatever begrudging help Garrosh was offering him?

As he deliberated, his gaze moved to the tower looming off to their left, then out over the brown, arid expanse to their right. The earth was shattered and twisted, and from its cracks leaked some kind of energy Varian had never witnessed. He was outmatched, and out of his element. 

He clenched his teeth, shook his head, and took a few reluctant steps in Garrosh’s direction. As soon as he was close enough to hear the hitch in the orc’s breath, Garrosh whirled around and set off with a stomp down the rest of the stairs. The former king could have sworn he caught him muttering “fool” under his breath as he went, and yet, he had no choice but to follow.

Whatever help Garrosh was willing to offer, Varian knew it wasn’t going to come easily. Once more, he considered turning and setting off by himself, but once again he cast the thought aside. They were stuck with each other, it seemed, no matter how furious Garrosh was about their predicament. 

All Varian knew for certain was that it was going to be a long day— if one could even speak of days in this desert of an eternity. 

Keeping his head low, he trailed behind Garrosh, descending with him into the valley and crossing the wreckage of a shattered plain like his shadow.

____________________

They traveled for what seemed like hours. Garrosh’s boots pounded a steady rhythm into the dirt that Varian fought to match. In the absence of conversation, his mind wandered, not to Stormwind as it had while he circled the tower, but instead to those moments when the thread of his life had crossed and tangled with Garrosh’s. 

He thought back to their first real meeting in Theramore, to how aggravated he had felt at every quip that had left the orc’s mouth. He recalled the stale taste of tournament beer on his tongue the night Garrosh had found him—stumbling and unguarded—after a clandestine trip to the drinking stall. They had argued in the street that night, but when Garrosh approached, it hadn’t been anger, but lust that had set his gold eyes ablaze. 

The heel of Varian’s hand had landed with a thud against his bare chest, and Garrosh had recoiled like a child who had gotten a taste of something horribly bitter. 

It had been Varian who yanked away the next time they touched, under the trees in Ashenvale with their weapons drawn. The clang of iron had been a familiar song, but the brush of Garrosh’s skin against his own had sent him reeling and stumbling away. Memories of their encounter in Icecrown had made the tension even more pronounced. Varian had never felt so relieved to hear the voices of human soldiers coming to usher him away from Garrosh’s stare. 

No soldiers of Stormwind would come for him here, however. The only one here to protect him was Garrosh himself, and he had no idea how long that charity would last. For a fleeting moment, Varian questioned whether Garrosh had felt the same way that night in Orgrimmar, when Varian had charged forward with Shalamayne drawn to stop what should have been Garrosh’s death blow. He wondered if Garrosh’s mind had turned to him again in the moments before Thrall ended his life.

Something in the king churned at the thought, and he hurried to push it aside. There was no use asking now what Garrosh had or hadn’t thought before he arrived in this place. If his experience was anything like Varian’s, the answer was likely _nothing_ , in any case. 

Nothing. No Stormwind. No Alliance or Horde, no Anduin, nothing. That, it seemed, was their reality now. Yet Garrosh still insisted on huffing and grumbling and gritting his teeth loudly enough to be heard. 

Hanging his head, Varian willed his mind to focus on the ground beneath his feet. They continued to travel in silence, until Garrosh abruptly paused at a jutting plate of earth and gestured into it with a dismissive flick of his wrist. 

“In here,” the orc muttered, then ducked into the artificial cave. 

Varian followed without hesitation this time, though he still walked in the distant haze of his thoughts. Once inside, however, the details of the space and the situation started to come into sharper focus. 

Garrosh had led him to the home he had created for himself in this wasteland. On one side of the space sat a heap of spears and knives crafted, it seemed, from the remnants of broken structures. Beside it was a stack of metal plates, like the plates that had adorned the hound Garrosh slayed on the stairs. On the opposite end of the cave there was a single scrap of leather, though whatever Garrosh had flayed to obtain it couldn’t be swiftly identified. 

Without a word, Garrosh took a seat on the mat. After he was settled, he gestured down at the other, unoccupied half. “Here,” he offered, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Varian wasn’t tired, but the chance to settle and cast aside his armor was welcome either way. He removed his pauldrons and set them aside. Once free of his chest plate, he arched his back, then flexed his arms, then reached up and undid his ponytail. His hair—caked with dust though it was—tumbled in waves down his shoulders.

Finally, the human cleared his throat and voiced one of the myriad questions plaguing his mind: “We don’t sleep, do we?”

Garrosh was swift to respond, “No.”

“Or eat?”

“No. Nothing. We exist, and keep wandering. There’s nothing more to our existence than this.”

“Not quite what the priests of the Holy Light promised, is it?”

Varian had hoped the comment would lighten the mood; instead it seemed to suck all the air from Garrosh’s cramped refuge. The orc straightened. His grimace returned, and he clenched his arms tight to his chest, as if trying to put as much space between the two of them as possible.

Irritation gnawed once more at the pit of Varian’s stomach. If Garrosh was so put off by him and his presence, why even offer to help? Why invite him to sit beside him if only to jerk away? He had wanted to believe that Garrosh could change, but now? Now all his hopes were dashed, and he was left feeling burned. He scooted to the side—off the mat, and onto the sand beside it. If Garrosh wanted distance, he would give it to him. He wasn’t going to spend his afterlife feeling like an unwelcome guest. 

Garrosh growled when he changed positions, but now Varian was ready to fight back. He snarled and turned to stare down the orc with his grey eyes ablaze. The ferocity seemed to catch Garrosh off guard, for he fell silent, allowing Varian to ask, “What? What the fuck is your problem, Garrosh?”

“ _What?_ ”

“You know what I mean.” Varian could feel his face growing hot, but the words continued to tumble freely from his tongue, “You save me and invite me here, _unasked for_ , mind you, yet you do nothing but complain. If you hate me so much, why even protect me? If you think you owe me or whatever, you don’t, okay? I don’t need your pity.”

As the final words left his lips, Varian realized with a pang how much he sounded like Garrosh himself. His thoughts turned at once to the trial: to Garrosh’s stubborn, leering gaze and the malice he had shown Varian for daring to try to defend him.

But the expression with which Garrosh regarded him now was a far cry from that moment. His eyes, instead, were wide, and his lips uneasy as they pursed into a taut frown around his tusks. It took a moment for him to speak, and when he did, his low voice stood in stark contrast to Varian’s shouts.

“Varian,” Garrosh began. It was clear he was choosing his words carefully. “Don’t you understand? This is hell. I’m mad that you ended up here, with me. This isn’t what you deserve.”

 _This is hell._

Varian knew from the way Garrosh spoke that it wasn’t some turn of phrase. This wasn’t a jab at Varian’s expense, or a complaint raised by Garrosh at the conditions they found themselves in. The orc knew what he was talking about, and he meant it. Horror washed over Varian, and he stared in front of him with his arms drawn close to his chest. 

This time Varian’s voice was as low and weak as Garrosh’s. “I fell fighting Gul’dan,” he explained, as much for himself as for the orc, “The Legion was invading, and I sacrificed myself to save Genn’s life.”

“Then why did you end up here?” Garrosh pressed.

“I don’t know.” Heaving a sigh, Varian threw his weight forward. His hair fell like curtains around his face. “I don’t know. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I had grown and made amends, but was it enough? What the fuck am I doing here? I don’t know.”

For a moment, silence descended upon them, but then something beside Varian stirred. A large, familiar hand came to rest against his shoulder. This time, Varian didn’t recoil or turn away. 

“I wish you weren’t here,” Garrosh admitted under his breath. Varian didn’t trust his voice to respond, but, it turned out, he didn’t need to. Garrosh continued without any prompting, “And I don’t know what you did to deserve this. But you won’t have to face it alone, all right? If you want, we can stay together.”

There was such reluctant hope behind his final words that Varian found the strength to lift his head. He looked into Garrosh’s eyes and offered a single nod. With that, they again went quiet. Varian shifted back onto the mat, and Garrosh unclenched his arms.

____________________

At some point during their reprieve, they shifted positions. Varian curled up at the front of the mat, and Garrosh stretched out his large body behind him. For a while, they didn’t touch, but as the moments passed the two of them scooted together. Varian’s backside pressed against Garrosh’s hips, and Garrosh’s hand came to rest, almost frozen, against the curve of Varian’s waist. 

The night Garrosh had come to him at the tournament, Varian had turned him away. Now, with nothing between them and nothing to hold them back, the human realized just how many times his mind had turned to this possibility. How different might things have been if he had given in to the orc’s sloppy kiss? What would have developed if instead of pressing his hands against Garrosh’s chest he had reached down, as he had longed to do, and fumbled with the clasps of his belt?

Lying back against Garrosh’s chest made him wonder, but it didn’t bring back the frantic frustration he had felt that night. Now there was a certain ease in their movements. They took their time, knowing that nothing and no one in the universe could interrupt them now.

Garrosh’s fingers wandered to the front of Varian’s pants, and Varian’s hips shifted against the swell he felt pressing against the small of his back. With his eyes fixed on the wall of the cave, Varian felt his body tense, then relax at the foreign feeling of an orc’s thumb tracing along the length of his cock. 

After a few strokes, he twitched up into Garrosh’s palm. It was smoother than Varian had imagined, and skilled as it encircled his base then slid up to cup his head. The human let out a growl. Seemingly encouraged by the sound, Garrosh leaned in until his tusk nuzzled the curve of Varian’s neck. He pressed lower lip against Varian's shoulder. Even through Varian’s shirt, the gentle contact made the former king quiver. 

He arched to deepen the contact between them, and Garrosh freed more of his cock from his pants. Now unhindered by the item of clothing, Garrosh was able to stroke him more quickly, falling into a rhythm that left Varian shaking and desperate for more. 

Tension started to build. The king dug his feet into the sand beyond the mat and rocked until he drew out a desperate groan from Garrosh. His breath felt hot against the nape of Varian's neck. With that, Garrosh rolled forward to meet him. He withdrew his hand from Varian’s cock, but before Varian could protest, he felt him working it into the space between them and heard the click of Garrosh’s belt coming free. 

There was fumbling, and then a swift yank that brought Varian’s pants down to his knees. The king’s eyes widened. He wondered for a fleeting moment what Garrosh intended to do, if he would feel the head of his cock nudging, insistent, at his entrance, and if his body would yield to accept it.

Much to his surprise, however, that pressure never came. Instead the orc’s heavy length pressed between his thighs, sliding in until Varian felt its head nudging against the back of his balls. 

The slight wetness of his slit against Varian’s sensitive skin made the human’s lower body tighten. He clenched, and Garrosh started to fuck into the space between his legs. After a few desperate rocks forward, the orc found a steady pace. He thrust, and his large arm wrapped around Varian to return to stroking his cock. 

Varian reached down and rested his own hand atop of the orc’s but made no further move to direct him. He was content, for once, to let Garrosh take the lead: so outmatched and out of his element he felt with the orc’s massive body wrapped around him and his skillful hand rubbing him towards his release.

Garrosh’s cock throbbed between Varian’s legs. The row of piercings adorning its underside teased Varian’s skin as the orc draped his leg atop of the human’s and nudged his thighs more firmly together. As he moved faster, his head slid forward—past Varian’s sensitive sac and out to graze the underside of the human’s now-aching cock. They rutted together, bodies entangled: shuddering and gasping and pressing down into the mat beneath them. Moving as one, they felt like the only two souls in the world. For all Varian knew, maybe they were.

The release that built beneath the base of Varian’s cock was like nothing he had known in life. It did not come as a thick burst of seed spilled onto his mattress as he fumbled desperately in the dark, but as a singular moment of total release and oneness with the body pressed tightly around him. He cried out and squeezed closed his eyes. Garrosh slammed forward, and then he, too, was consumed in a wracking shudder that Varian felt down to his core. 

When he finally caught his breath, he found his fingers tightly interlaced with Garrosh’s, still cupping his softening shaft. Not knowing what to say, he instead gave the orc’s hand a firm squeeze. Garrosh reciprocated, then withdrew his own cock from between Varian’s legs and put a more comfortable distance between them. 

For a moment, neither orc nor human made a sound. Varian listened to the faint whisper of sand blown against the plate tented over their head. Just when he assumed that neither would address what had just transpired between them, however, Garrosh spoke, his voice like the faint rumble of thunder over an empty plain:

“I don’t think you belong here,” the orc admitted, bringing his hand to rest, once more, against the curve of Varian’s waist.

Varian didn’t lift his head, but this time he did answer, with a voice just as low and honest as the orc’s. 

“Maybe not. But I’m glad not to face it alone.”


End file.
